


The Rain

by Miriam_Heddy



Series: Blond Bombshell [3]
Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:59:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vince thinks about what happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Vince's internal monologue includes his musings on his gender non-conformity, identity, and sexual orientation, as well as him speculating on how Howard may see him. These attitudes and beliefs are meant to reflect Vince's own internalised phobias and prejudices, as well as his pride.
> 
> These views are not my own, and likely aren't your own, either. I attempted to extrapolate from Vince's own canonical language usage (as well as Noel's commentary on him), which reflect current cultural attitudes toward gender identity and sexuality, both negative and positive.

Vince walked to the Underground and stood on the platform before changing his mind, getting out, and walking home. He'd thought of going dancing to get out the restless energy built up, only once he thought of it, he realised he couldn't bear the people. It wasn't like him. He usually felt better in the centre of a dance floor, but, as he discovered whilst walking home, the restless energy wanted to come out in the form of tears, so he let it, doing his best to cry quietly, and without much fuss. The weather helped, as it began to rain lightly but steadily enough to give cover to his tears and explain the mess his makeup made when he rubbed at his eyes.

He got home soaked through and feeling cleaner than he had been. He trod up the stairs quietly, stripping off his jacket and shirt and dropping them at the top of the stairs before taking off his boots and the rest. He carried the sodden clothing as far as the loo, dried himself, then left the wet things there, behind the door, only to walk right back in and hang everything up properly to dry.

He didn't take his eyes off the ground directly in front of him, so he was startled when he walked into the lounge and saw that Howard was curled up on the sofa, having fallen asleep with a cushion placed over, rather than tucked under, his head. He might've been blocking out the light, only the rooms were all dark.

Vince had planned on getting a cuppa before braving the bedroom, but he stopped and came up by Howard, thinking he might be awake and pretending. But Howard didn't move, even when Vince lifted the cushion from his face.

Vince's bare foot knocked over the empty glass on the floor where Howard had left it beside a nearly empty bottle of Scotch Vince had bought on a whim nearly a month ago, thinking they ought to have some actual adult drink in the house, though he, personally, still preferred alcopops and Howard liked beer.

Howard wasn't one to drink alone, and for a moment, Vince felt a twinge of something soft and weak for Howard. Then he put his hand on his own belly, covering the spot Howard said ought to have a yellow gem stuck on.

Vince's hair had gone well flat in the rain, and as he'd dried it with the towel and combed it through, it had remained pressed against his head. He used his hand to fluff it up a bit, but, as his mood had been too low to blow-dry it, it only went flat again.

It would look stupid in the morning.

He looked down at Howard. Howard's hair was stupid all the time. Howard's whole head was stupid. 

Vince scrubbed his hands over his face. He hadn't done a proper job removing his makeup, only using the damp towel. He hadn't even looked in the mirror, as once he did, he'd be compelled to do his hair and makeup to look like Vince Noir, Prince of Camden, when he felt like nothing of the sort. 

Gonk Troll. A fucking yellow Gonk. Was that what Howard saw?

He still held the sofa cushion in his hands and thought about how an evil man might use it to asphyxiate Howard. Only he wasn't an evil man, so instead, he thought about dropping it on Howard, as it would likely startle him awake. Only didn't do that, either.

He carried it with him halfway to the bedroom door, shifting it from hand to hand, then turnt back around and, from a few feet away, threw it at Howard's head, as hard as he could.

It was a down cushion and it had some heft to it. 

It hit Howard's stupid face with a satisfyingly loud sound, causing Howard to come awake just enough to fall off the sofa and onto the floor with an even more satisfying series of thuds and a loud, growling, "Fucking wha--!?"

Vince waited for Howard to fully wake and see him. To help things along, he turnt on the standing lamp, blinding Howard, who squinted up at him, stood himself up very carefully, and then glared at him with his beady little bloodshot eyes. He was swaying a bit--still drunk.

Vince glared back, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for Howard to say something. Anything would do, really. All Vince needed was an opening.

But Howard remained quiet, his angry glare turning into a more confusing stare after a few moments of strained silence.

Then, finally, "You look awful."

Vince very nearly laughed. "You're one to talk." 

Howard looked down at himself and attempted to straighten his clothing. Vince might be naked, but Howard's blazer was off and his shirt was wrinkled and halfway unbuttoned from the bottom, giving him the look of a drunkard on the street. His corduroy trousers were rumpled as well. And he was barefoot--which somehow made him look vulnerable. Vince tried to ignore that.

Howard nodded, putting his hand up to his forehead and rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "Meant you look, erm--you're naked."

"Know what you meant." Vince took a shaky breath, letting it out slowly, thinking that he was not going to cry now. He'd done his crying out of doors in order to not do it in front of Howard, who'd only try to comfort him. He wasn't allowed to do that. Not yet. Maybe never.

"I'm sorry."

Vince shook his head, took another breath, and covered his mouth with his hand, partly muffling what might've been a sob. 

"Vince? Vince, we need to talk."

He turnt around and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and leaning on it, keeping his hand over his mouth as he made that bloody awful sound again.

"Fucking stupid, idiotic, tit." This time, he meant himself. He should've stopped it all sooner--the moment Paul T. got it in his head to put a hand on him--not because of Howard, but because it let Paul T. think he'd earned the right. 

It was one thing to be a girl-boy that swung both ways and confused people, and, at times, himself. It was another to let another bloke use him to feel powerful, or manly, or whatever it was that drove Paul T. and Howard and most of the straight, male population of London to treat birds like shite and, often as not, Vince as if he was just another bird.

Birds didn't deserve it either. He didn't mean that they did. Only it was confusing, sometimes, having to "act like a man" to put a stop to it when he was a man and didn't want to act. He only wanted to be--as he was--as felt right to him. He was a person. Cut me, do I not bleed glitter and all that. He wasn't a thing to be passed around for everyone to touch and use.

He'd thought Howard, of all people, understood that. Howard might've called him a pouf once or twice, or said he looked like a prostitute, but they were only playing. It was like crimping--something they kept between them.

Gonk Troll. Those had nothing at all between their legs. If anyone was that, it'd be Naboo, but he was an alien, with neither cunt nor prick. Was that how Howard saw Vince--neither a man nor a woman--an alien--inbetween who was nothing at all? Was that how Howard justified being fucked up the arse--that it was alright, so long as a "real man" wasn't in him?

Vince shook his head and ran into the loo, but ended up sickening up in the basin, not reaching the toilet in time. It was alright, as there was hardly anything in him. Crying hard sometimes did that--tensing up his insides until it all came out.

He ran the faucet to clean the basin and then splashed his face and, after a moment of indecision, cleaned his teeth. Then, as he was already there, he set about removing his makeup proper, finding the steps soothing, as he didn't have to think about anything at all. As a last step, he had a quick, hot shower. His wrist hurt and there was a redness on his neck where the t-shirt's collar had dug into him before tearing.

Finally, he dried off and stretched out in bed, pulling the duvet up high. He rolled onto his side, facing the empty side of the bed. Howard's pillow lay there, and he scowled at it, thinking of tossing it onto the floor. Only instead, he switched it for his own pillow and put his head down on Howard's. It smelt like his shampoo, and Vince sighed, feeling angry with himself for finding that a comfort when the bloke himself was in the other room, well out of reach.


End file.
